I imagined when I was so upset with my boyfriend that I cancelled our weekend away, that he would realize what he had done and make it up to me. It crossed my mind that he would think to book another chalet and take me away knowing how disappointed I was. If he didn’t do that, I thought at least he would plan a romantic date: dinner or drinks or a movie – something. Nope. Nothing.
Turns out I am stupider than I think.
Last night after work he messaged me on my way home to say he was out drinking but wouldn’t be too much longer. I came home and poured us both some wine. I set out a cheese plate and appetizers. I thought perhaps we would watch a movie and have a nice night in spite of my disappointment.
Three hours later with not a word from my boyfriend, I had purged all the food, drunk most of the wine and went to lie in the bath tub with my book. I eventually messaged him to make sure he wasn’t lying in a ditch. I got a drunken selfie in return. I put on my pajamas, turned off my phone and went to bed.
When he did come home in the middle of the night, 5 hours after he told me he wouldn’t be much longer, he made the mistake of turning on the bedroom light and flying across the room, leaping onto the bed. I woke up in fright, screaming. He landed on top of me laughing and it took me a minute to figure out what was going on. I pushed him away from me asking him what the f**k he thought he was doing. My heart was pounding from the shock.
The stupidity of his answer is almost as alarming as my stupidity, “I didn’t realize you were sleeping. I thought you were waiting up for me. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I know he is drunk. I roll over and try to sleep, but adrenaline is coursing through me. I am wide awake and unhappy. He falls asleep instantly, cozying up to me; one arm heavy over me which I keep trying to remove. He is snoring-farting-moaning in his alcohol induced stupor and I lie there in the dark thinking that there must be more to life than this.
The next morning he is sheepish. He thinks I am mad about the near heart failure he induced in me last night. He doesn’t seem to get that I am crushed by the weight of disappointment. He comes upstairs with flowers and coffee for me. He says he is sorry he was an asshole.
“I didn’t mean for last night to turn out that way,” he says
“I didn’t plan this weekend to turn out this way,” I respond as my tears run down and splash onto the Calla Lilies. I try to tell him that I don’t deal well with disappointment. He is mute – immune to my distress.
The weekend carries on as usual. We lie in bed and watch movies while it rains-sleets-snows outside. We eat. I purge. We eat again. I purge again.
He doesn’t mention any plans and I don’t ask.
Saturday comes and goes. Sunday comes and goes. On Monday he leaves to go shooting with his friend (ironically in the mountains where we would have been staying). I am angry-cleaning the house when he leaves, trying to scrub my frustration out of dirty counter tops and bathroom floors. I am meant to be relaxing in an outdoor hottub not scrubbing toilets on my hands and knees. He asks if I am ok. I tell him once again that I didn’t plan for the weekend to turn out this way.
“I know,” is all he says.